The Empire On Which the Sun Never Sets
by Mr. Saxobeat
Summary: After Spain's defeat by the English Armada, he returns home where he is cared for by Romano. Chibi!Romano and Empire!Spain.


It's storming outside, the raindrops splattering against the glass windows, leaving behind wet trails. The steady pitter patter of the rain against the rooftop and the gurgling of the gutters is loud against Romano's ears. However for once in his lifetime, none of this causes fear in his little heart. For the first time in forever, Spain's house feels dark and the hallway seems to stretch on and on and on. Peaking around the corner of the dark hall, he sees what has woken him. It's Spain, leaning against the base of the front door. He's back too early; he should still be fighting England, so why is he here? Rivulets of blood drip onto the cold cobbled ground from his fingertips. His hair is dark with rain, matted with blood and sweat and the scent of gunpowder. The scent of death.

"Spagna?" There's no reply. Romano pads over to the still form of his guardian, completely silent except for the soft swish swish of his pale green maid uniform.

"Spagna?" he repeats. Once again there is no reply, save for the shifting of Spain in his slumber and an almost inaudible groan. Romano brings his small pale hands up to Spain's grimy forehead, carefully brushing back the curls. When he brings back his hand, it's red. A small shocked gasp escapes his parted lips, and he hurriedly wipes it against the hem of the miniature dress.

Romano scampers to the kitchen and stops in front of the window. He pushes a small stool in front and steps onto it, making sure not to fall off as he has done so many times in the past. He stands on his tip-toes and pushes open the window, bringing in a gust of freezing wind and a spray of water. Taking out his handkerchief, he hold it out until it is decently damp before running back to Spain, neglecting to close the window in his haste.

Back in front of the door, Spain has not moved, and the worry Romano has been trying to suppress rushes back, full force. Setting the dripping handkerchief on Spain's face, he leans over, pressing his ear against Spain's chest, a golden button digging into his cheek. For a moment he's too nervous and hears nothing but the rushing of blood in his brain, but then the steady beating of Spain's heart clears away the fogginess from his mind.

_Thump._

_Thump._

_Thump._

"Grazie a Dio," Romano whispers to himself. Remembering what he came to do, he picks up the handkerchief again and wrings it out on the ground. Starting with the face, he dabs it against the dirt and crusted blood, leaving clean streaks on Spain's face. Most of his wounds have closed, but there is still a deep, weeping gash on his chest, an English sword slicing open his black coat, white tunic, and finally his tan flesh. Romano's too young to do anything about it, so all he can do is stare at it until its image is imprinted in his mind. There's nothing more he can do, so Romano sits by Spain's head, his hands rubbing small, soothing circles on his forehead.

"Ro-Roma?" Spain coughs, his face twisting in pain when he moves. "Ah...it hurts, it hurts so badly." Spain slowly turns his head, so he's facing Romano directly. "Boss loves you, you know?"

"Jerk, you sound like you're dying!" Romano turns bright red, but he holds Spain's stare. "Don't talk! Just rest!"

Spain gives him a weak smile but ignores his request. "Do you think I'll die?" He shifts his gaze, so he's looking at the ceiling.

"Nations can't die," Romano crosses his arms and pouts. The topic is disturbing him, and he wants to change it, but he doesn't know how.

"If they're hurt badly enough by a fellow nation, they can, Roma."

"Y-You won't die. I won't let you!"

Spain chuckles before gasping in pain again. "Thanks, Roma." He drifts into unconsciousness again and silence falls again.

"You can't die." Romano grips his skirt in white-knuckled hands and doesn't leave Spain's side until he wakes up agai

_Because you are Spain, the empire on which the sun never sets._

* * *

AN: By the nineteenth century, the Spanish Empire was crumbling and soon its demise was inevitable. After its defeat by the English Armada in 1588, it slowly weakened until it was impossible for it to rise back up.


End file.
